In Spite of All the Danger
by JulietBurke007
Summary: The adventures of John Drake before he became Danger Man or The Prisoner. This reluctant spy must deal with ruthless criminals, clandestine operations, and his own tumultuous life in order to prevent the Cold War from erupting into an inferno. ON HIATUS
1. A Landscape Photographer

A breezy field of clouds, stained in gray and gold by the layers of shadow and sunlight, churns below the airplane. The small craft tentatively dips in and out of the swirling masses. Painted a pale Camoutint pink, it is practically invisible from below, seamlessly blending with the thick stratus formations. This miniscule plane, a battered Spitfire, is on a reconnaissance assignment. It has been designated the clandestine task of photographing enemy terrain. The solo, ten-hour mission is simple: fly low, photograph the targets, keep radio silence, and attempt to remain unseen.

The diligent teenager at the controls intently gazes at the rearview mirror. The pilot is checking that no contrail is visible; such vapor would immediately betray him to the Germans. The pilot sighs. Lacking a navigator, he is relying solely on dead reckoning and estimation to get him through this flight. This is not his first reconnaissance mission, and if all continues to go well, it will not be his last. He is only seventeen, eighteen according to his military application, but he naturally looks and deliberately acts beyond his years. Lacking the clumsiness that characterizes most of his peers, this pilot has displayed an unprecedented aptitude for sensitive military operations. The photos and data he has collected for the British military have provided vital information for the Allies. Most airmen are shipped off to combat, this one has been trusted with the essential duty of spying, a responsibility that this young man has taken on with quiet enthusiasm.

But he is naïve. Bored and arrogant, he allows his eyes to glaze over. His hands are still at the controls, but he is flying on an autopilot of sorts.

Flying into a trap of sorts.

Continuing to weave, the pilot carelessly loops above the cloud cover. There they are. The Germans. Buzzing and gleaming like a swarm of sunray-striped locusts.

The pilot blinks.

Wrenching the controls, he flips into a wild half roll. His plane is unarmed, helpless against the menacing German machines. All he can do is mutter some prayers and curses and attempt to gain altitude. Clawing above the fleet of Nazi planes, the Spitefire zooms away, darting in and out of the clouds. The German planes give chase. A mob of buzzing, iron hounds pursuing a startled fawn.

Twirling and swooping recklessly, for a moment the young man appears to have lost the pack of Germans. Then, bursting heat everywhere.

The young pilot's world quakes for a second. He feels the controls jerked away as the Spitefire begins to tremble, a bird with a rickety, broken wing. He braces himself, all alone in the cramped cockpit, as the wind whistles past his plummeting plane. Somehow, he manages to snatch back the controls. But it's too late. He's going down, fast. The ground rushes forward, leaping up to swallow him. The cramped cockpit erupts in roaring flames.

Fumbling with a parachute, he pushes at the hood of the plane. It does not release. The fire wafts about him, numbing him with its intensity. The pilot pounds at the unmoving roof of the plane; he gasps, struggling to breathe. The Spitfire becomes just that, a flaming, smoking column of fury; a fallen angel slipping towards earth. Ripping at the controls, the pilot manages to regain some aerial composure before he crashes down into a field. The plane slides and bounces, tumbling to a stop eventually. Nearly consumed by the ravenous flames, the pilot kicks off the roof, leaping to safety before he is incinerated.

Wheezing and shaking, he collapses onto the grass, crawling away from the wreck. Weak, he lies down for a few moments, staring at the burning flames. They envelop and blacken the cameras that are fastened to the craft. The lenses stare at him disapprovingly. Fair hair singed, blue eyes clouded by soot and involuntary tears, he lies, crumpled in a faint, on the scratchy grass. Years, months, seconds limp by: time and vision become too wobbly to account for. When he hears voices, he stirs. A pair of shiny black boots stomp into view. The pilot looks up at the Nazi standing in front of him. There are several encircling him, their guns drawn.

"Hello there," he coughs, cheerfully. The scowling expressions are reply enough.

"Cameras," one of the soldiers grunts, gesturing at the flaming skeleton of the Spitfire.

"A spy," the commander hisses, staring down at the fallen pilot.

"Just out taking some pictures." The young man shrugs, brightly. "A bit of a hobby of mine…"


	2. Letters from Bolgia 10

They are the six.

Six souls sealed in that nebulous vault. Six men that have ceased to exist, by all accounts. They are spies, traitors, and saboteurs. Shadowy instruments of opposition each captured and imprisoned in a dark rural basement by the increasingly desperate Third Reich.

Three Brits, a Russian, a Parisian, and a Swiss.

The latter two spend most of their time idly chatting colorful French. Their names are Bernhard and Luke, or something along those lines. They are pleasant, humane blokes, constantly checking on the downed Spitfire pilot. This new prisoner is considerably fluent in French, much to the delight of his compatriots. He probably would have participated more in their engrossing conversations had he not been injured by the Spitfire crash. A grotesque buzzing noise continues to flood his ears; his memory fluctuates between times of clarity and moments of blurriness. His arm had been badly mangled in the wreckage, a fact he had not noticed until after his arrival in the cell. Now the useless limb is pinned across its chest, held in place by a makeshift splint. Despite the constant, searing pain in his arm, the pilot is by no means the worst off captive.

In the corner lies the barely stirring heap of a man. A fellow Brit, another newcomer. This man's history remains unknown; his extensive injuries have rendered him largely incapable of movement and communication. He remains bandaged and isolated, a captured fly wrapped in spider's silk. A shifty German doctor examines him daily, occasionally dispensing some mysterious medication. The other prisoners occasionally check on his progress, but have been warned extensively not to interfere with him.

The other silent prisoner is the Russian. A tall, somber storm of a man, he is in a nearly constant state of pretend-sleep. Seemingly disgusted by his fellow inmates, he does not speak; he glares. Bernhard maintains that he has never heard the man talk. The new prisoner cannot make this claim.

It had been the young pilot's first night in the cold cell. The teenager was slouching in the corner, allowing tears to silently well. His deep-set blue eyes were brimming due to the splintering pain in his arm. Mostly. Terrified, he had nearly jumped out of fright upon seeing the sepulchral Russian emerge from the darkness.

"Hello."

No reply.

"Do you think we'll ever get out?" the pilot had asked eventually, naively searching for some comfort. Surprisingly, the Russian had answered him, in a rasping, accented English.

"What is your name?"

"John Drake."

"Well, John Drake, have you ever read Dante's _Inferno_?" Lying, the pilot nods his head. "The place for spies and traitors is Bolgia Ten. One of the deepest, darkest rings of hell. That's what this is." He gestures about the cold, grey walls. "Hell. And crying won't change that. If you ever want to survive, you must never show such vulnerability. If you feel one way, act the opposite. Deceive yourself and live."

The teenager had blinked his stinging eyes dry. He wouldn't cry again for years. After dispensing that menacing advice, the Russian had ceased to speak anymore to anyone. He and John have barely regarded one another since.

This left Keith, the only other functioning Englishman, free to become the new prisoner's closest friend. Keith Turnbull: a friendly lad from Surrey with dark eyes, a square face, and a reassuring smile. He is young, only a few years older than the seventeen-year-old pilot. An avid lover of linguistics, Keith spoke flawless German and Dutch and had served as a spy in Berlin.

"At first, I just collaborated with the underground," he whispers, eyes flickering about excitedly, "Sabotage. Misinformation. That sort of business. But London just wanted more." The young pilot smiles at this familiar mentality. "So I started fetching coffee—"

"Coffee?" Drake just stares.

"And tea. Tea and coffee and crumpets." Keith laughs, wryly. "All for the boys in the main SS office." He shrugs. "You'd be surprised how much information I got. Just from sneaking about with that bulky breakfast tray. I checked the waste bins, rifled through people's desks, eavesdropped. No one suspected a thing, I was just the _Kaffee Junge_ after all."

"How'd they catch you?" Drake wants to know.

"Oh Lord," Keith mutters, covering his face with his hands, "It was bad, John, it was bad."

"Worse than crashing a Spitfire in the middle of a bloody Luftwaffe training field?"

"My ring got busted somehow. Maybe someone talked…. I'm not quite sure what happened. Either way, my bloody picture got pasted on this huge memo that was then circulated about the major offices. A wanted poster, essentially, you know, Keith Turnbull: _Veind des Vaterlandes_. I had no idea, so I showed up for work as usual. Brought coffee to one of the big bosses. He liked me… _fancied_ me even. We were chatting it up when suddenly I see my own damn face peeking out from under a pile of papers on his desk! When his secretary called him over for a moment, I grabbed the memo and got the hell out of there. I nearly made it to the door when suddenly; the place is packed with what seems to be the bloody Nazi High Command. I turn to go out the back when suddenly I'm grabbed from behind—"

"Someone recognized you?"

"Well, not yet," Keith says, miserably, "I was grabbed by none other than the big boss that liked me. He asks me why I'm leaving so soon, says they're having some sort of breakfast reception in the lobby, and drags me over. I tried to get away, but he wouldn't have any of it. The next thing I know, I'm being introduced to the bloody heads of the department. He's telling them all these things, like how I'm one of the most promising interns there, and how I've got a true German spirit and whatnot. The others are just staring, absolutely blown away. Suddenly, one of them flashes him the goddamn memo." Keith shakes his head. "And the next thing I know, I'm tied up in the trunk of a car, on my way here."

The two young Englishmen share a bitter laugh.

"No trial, no inquisition, nothing. They were so embarrassed that their Berlin office had been infiltrated. You should've seen the Chief of Security as I was arrested; he was practically in tears. They just grabbed me, locked me in here, and that's where I've been ever since."

"I'm surprised they haven't killed you yet," the teenager says, bluntly.

"Well, that's the thing. You see they _need_ to know exactly what information I've sent back to London. It's driving them mad. They can't do damage control until they know what's been damaged. They won't kill me until I tell them what intelligence I've stolen."

"Have you given anything up?"

Keith gingerly rolls up his torn shirtsleeve, revealing a ghastly, swollen procession of systematic gashes and burns. His determined smile is answer enough.

"Nothing important, and they know it. They've tried _everything_. Torture, interrogation, pleading, beating. Nothing's worked yet. You see, I can make myself forget things sometimes," the spy murmurs, tapping the side of his head. Drake frowns, skeptical. "You just have to completely focus on something else."

"What do _you_ focus on, Keith?"

"Susan," is the breathless response, "My fiancée."

"That's nice." Drake knows all about Susan. She's all Keith ever really talks about. It never stops, even when he's sleeping. Susan Jay. The beautiful volunteer nurse he'd known since primary school, back before she was a beautiful volunteer nurse. The girl he's to marry, the girl he hasn't spoken to in four years. "Goodnight." The pilot closes his eyes and tries to sleep as Keith slumps against the damp wall, composing letters to fair Susan in his head.


	3. The Betrayal of Dreams

"V-I-2-L-L6-E. V-I-2-L-L6-E. V-I-2-L-L6-E."

"Hey." John roughly shakes his friend awake. "Keith?"

"What? What is it?" The young man sits up, his eyes bleary with

exhaustion. The room is as dark as ever, but seems colder than usual. The air has been pierced by that pre-dawn, bone-rattling chill. "What's happened?"

"You were talking in your sleep," John says, "Again."

"What did I say?" the spy asks, grimacing. "Nothing inappropriate,

I hope."

"You kept repeating V-I-2-L-L6-E."

"Oh dear. That _is_ inappropriate. Classified, even."

"What is it?"

"The key to a very important code… That's all I'll say. But how

horrible." Keith grins, despite himself. "The thought's just unbearable, really. To undergo so much pain over a secret, only to have one's dreams go and betray it." He closes his eyes. "I just wish I could forget it."

"Then why don't you?"

"What?"

"I'll remember the code. You'll remember what its for. Two pieces of the puzzle."

"I don't know if I can just forget—"

"Create a mental block. It's not hard, especially for a bloke in your line of work. Replace that sequence with more memories of home. Of Susan!"

"I'll try. But are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay, John." Keith chuckles. "You are full of good ideas. I can't thank you enough. One less thing for me to think about."

"Forget about it."

* * *

"We're leaving," Bernhard says, "Soon."

"What's the rush?" Drake asks, bemused, "Have you got dates or something?"

"Yes. We've dates with Lady Liberty." The teenager rolls his eyes at this. "In all seriousness, John, we must leave. Haven't you heard what the guards have been saying?"

"No."

"Germany's losing the fight," Luke informs him.

"They've been losing for months," John mutters, "Doesn't mean anything. There's still a bloody war going on."

"No, Drake, they're _really_ losing!" Bernhard whispers, excitedly, "The Nazis're being pushed to the brink, they're running for their lives."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes, for the Allies."

"Bernhard." Smirking, John pats the seemingly confused Frenchman on the shoulder. "We _are_ the Allies."

"Not anymore. We don't exist, as far as the Allies are concerned," Luke protests. "_Mon Dieu! _We're worse than dead, my British friend. We're gone. We never happened."

"_C'est l'horrible verite_." The young Frenchman glances about, apprehensively. "They're going to kill us, Drake. When the Allies come in, it's going to be chaos. The Germans can't take us with them. On the other hand, we're too important to leave here for the Allies to find."

"Too important?"

"_Oui_! You've only been here a short time, but the rest of us? We've seen things. We've heard things. We know too much. So they're going to kill us. _Soon_. Turnbull heard one of them talking about it."

"I see."

"That is why I think we should go."

"What do you think, Luke?" Drake asks his other friend.

"If we stay, we die. If we leave, there's a chance some of us will live. There is no question: we must go."

"That's a rather strong opinion for a Swiss."

Luke scowls, but Bernhard laughs at this.

"Let us tell you our plan," the Frenchman whispers.

"No!" Drake's pale eyes flash about the walls of the prison. "This whole place could be wired…"

"It's not," Bernhard assures him. "We've checked. Numerous times. I have extensive experience in the areas of bugs and eavesdropping, if there were any devices of any sort I'd have found them…." The young pilot nods. "So, the armed guards posted outside this basement work in three shifts." Bernhard's voice betrays a certain pride for the carefully constructed plan. "The third guard, the fat one that brings us an occasional dinner, works solo. He also happens to be a slobbering drunk."

"How do you know?"

"You can smell him a mile away." Luke raises his eyebrows at this unprofessionalism. "Next time he brings us a meal we will overpower him and take his weapon. There should be two or three other Germans upstairs. If we are careful, we should be able to pick them off one by one with the gun."

"Then what?"

"Keith," Luke nods at the cheerful young man from Surrey, who is currently having a rather one-sided conversation with the horrifically injured man in the corner, "happens to know the location of a nearby group of communist partisans." Noticing the young pilot's skeptical expression, he adds, "_Jésus-Christ, ne me dites pas qu'il est cet ardent d'un capitaliste!_ John, they hate the Nazis just as much as we do. They live in the forests and fight the Germans in any way possible. If we can reach them, they might be able to help us."

"It's a wonderful plan, no?" Bernhard beams. Drake stares at him, brow lined with skepticism. "John, we can either stake our lives on this chance or simply surrender to death without a fight."

"And you're all willing to take such a risk?"

"I've been with the French Resistance since the very beginning. Luke's parachuted behind enemy lines so many times it became like a commute for him. Keith's stolen intelligence from the offices of the Nazi high command. We've all been at this too long to yield now."

"I see."

"And what about you, Drake? Are you coming?" the Frenchman asks, eyes sparkling urgently.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"_Bon_. Then it's us three and Keith. Tomorrow night."

"What about the Russian?"

"I asked him," Luke sighs, "He didn't respond. I assume that means that he doesn't want to come…if he does he's free to accompany us."

"Oh. And I suppose we're not bringing…" Drake quietly gestures over at the critically wounded Brit in the corner.

"No." Bernhard shakes his head sadly. "We can't… I wish, but it's just not possible. He's on heaven's doorstep as it is, the poor man."

* * *

They came for Keith suddenly.

The inmates had been huddled in the corner, awaiting the arrival of the third guard. Luke had determined that he would be making his anticipated visit soon.

That's when it happened. Drake could decipher their intentions from sound of their boots. Steady stomping meant general announcements; brisk, insistent steps meant interrogation. Torture was signified by a slow, deliberate descent into the cell. Two blank Nazis unlocked the fortified door, allowing their commanding officer to stride in.

"Keith Turnbull," The Nazi officer fixates his black droplet eyes upon the hushed group. He is more a column of smoke than a man, known simply as _SD-Leiter_ by soldiers and prisoners alike.

"Present!" Keith leers, standing up. The smiling spy is dragged out of the dim space; the cell door slams behind him with a definite clank.

Drake and Bernhard exchange a glance of strategically suppressed panic.

"He'll be right back," Luke keeps repeating, "They'll be back with him in a moment."

His prophecy is only partially accurate. After around an hour, the thudding of the boots echoes across the silence once more. The same trio of Nazis bursts through the door, sans Keith.

"John Drake."


	4. Pet Mole

The spy plane pilot is roughly shoved into a smoky space. He glances around, eyes adjusting to the light. Judging from the shattered coffee table and torn sofas, this used to be a living room. Under control of the Nazis, it serves a far different purpose. In the center of the floor is Keith. He is pale and shaking, but his smile is broad. He has been bound to a chair and blindfolded.

"Hello," Turnbull says, weakly, "Is that John?"

"Yes, Keith." Drake notices with horror the maze of bloody incisions criss-crossing his friend's bared chest.

"They want you to read something to me." Keith laughs, sounding somewhat manic. "A bedtime story, maybe."

"What?"

"Read this article." The SD-Leiter thrusts a document into John's hands. It appears to be a newspaper clipping, rows of black print wrinkled and torn. A faded picture of a charred building accompanies the text. Eyes narrowing, he briefly scans the document. He glimpses a certain name and freezes. "Out loud."

"No." Drake tosses the paper away. This earns him a forceful blow to the head; the young pilot crumples to the ground.

"What's happened?" Keith asks.

"I'm not reading that," John growls at the SD-Leiter.

"You have no choice." The commanding officer draws his gun.

"Just read it, John," Keith demands.

"I-I… Keith… I can't…"

"You will!" Drake is violently yanked to his feet and handed the article. "Every word, properly. You make it up: we shoot one of your friends downstairs. Either you read it to him, or they die and _we_ read it to him."

"Drake, dear boy, please don't get anyone shot on my account," Keith says, calmly.

"Begin!" the chief Nazi barks.

"'In the latest devastating wave of Blitz attacks in the heart of London,'" John spits out, "'seventeen civilian casualties were sustained outside a South Croydon entrance to the London Underground. So far, the following people have been identified as among the dead: Ben Burke, Kate Gale, James Pike…'" Drake closes his eyes, involuntarily tuning into the infinite humming in his ears. "'Susan Jay.'"

"Thank you, Mr. Drake." The pilot is shoved away before he can see Turnbull's reaction. "That will be all."

* * *

"What did they want?" Bernhard inquires. "Where's Keith?" John pauses for a moment, shaken.

"They… they made me read a newspaper clipping…"

"What?" The Resistance agent frowns.

"A British article, about a Blitz attack. Keith's fiancée was listed as one of the dead."

"Oh God." Luke's eyes widen. "Are you certain that it's authentic?"

"It certainly looked real." Drake slumps against the wall. "Oh God… She was the only thing keeping him going. Now she's gone and he knows it. They've broken him. And I've helped."

Bernhard swears, quietly.

"Drake, don't be a fool. They forced you to read it," Luke snaps, "And there's still the possibility that it's a fake."

Haunting screams resonate from above.

"Keith doesn't seem to think so."

"But… I don't understand," the Swiss mutters, "How'd they even find out about Susan? He certainly didn't tell them…"

"I've thought about that too. I think we have a infiltrator in our midst," is the grim response. "A spy amongst spies. They couldn't make us talk to them. But they knew we'd talk to each other." Bernhard and Luke glance at one another, then at the Russian. The tall man appears to be silently sleeping in the far corner. "So they sent in a mole. He's been listening in on our conversations, feeding the Germans the intelligence he collects by living with us."

"That _bastard_," the Frenchman hisses. In a flash, Luke and Bernhard are pummeling the groggy Russian, attempting to strangle him. Drake hurries over, scrambling to break up the attack.

"Stop it, stop it you fools!" The young pilot manages to pull the astonished target of the assault to safety. "Have you lost your minds?"

"This son of a bitch's been listening this whole time!" growls Luke, "He's sold us! We're all dead men because of him!"

"Would you all just calm down for a moment?" Drake murmurs. The accused collaborator attempts to stand up. The Spitfire pilot gently goads him to sit back down. "We mustn't do anything rash."

With that, he strides over to the badly maimed Brit in the corner, aloofly kicking the man in the ribs.

"_DRAKE_!" Luke and Bernhard shout, as the heavily bandaged figure writhes in pain.

"_Scheiss, scheiss, scheiss_!" are the German exclamations of agony. Drake grabs the man, swiftly tearing away the dressings wound about his face. This action reveals unblemished skin. The entire shocked face is distinctly untarnished; with no trace of the scorching, extensive injuries the man was perceived to bear.

"Feeling better?" John smirks. Glaring, the man makes a move for the slight bulge protruding from the side of his swathed hip. Drake anticipates this reach, swiftly delivering the bulky individual a kick to the face. Unwrapping a few more bandages, he reveals a small pistol previously concealed within the layers of sterile bindings. Luke, Bernhard, and even the Russian stare as the pilot hovers over the now unconscious man, examining the weapon.

"Gentlemen," Drake says, coldly, "I present to you, our pet mole."

* * *

The portly sentry takes another sip from his secret flask. The scene has already started to melt a bit before his eyes, but the alcohol hasn't really hindered his guarding abilities.

Or so he believes.

Glancing up at the hallway clock, he realizes that it is feeding time for the captives. He sighs, not really caring. Providing these prisoners with a punctual meal won't make his wife sane. Staying sober through his shift won't bring his firstborn son back from the frontlines. The guard knocks back another generous gulp. Taking this goddamn job seriously won't stop the Allied bombs from plunging all over Germany, detonating away his home, his Munich, his little girl, and his will to live...

Tears now sliding down his plump face, the man wills the minutes to tick faster. Let those poor sons of bitches in the basement starve. Let those arrogant bastards upstairs go the night without a proper guard. Let everything in this damned classified house go to hell, just as everything has in his life….

Having dozed off, the guard wakes up around half an hour later. He is somewhat more alert. Sighing, the man grasps the sloshing basin of unidentifiable gruel and heads over towards the cell.

"Step away from the door," he grumbles, drawing his gun, "Everyone get back and line up."

Cautiously, the sentry enters the chamber, gun aimed at the row of men standing before the door. He slides the container of food towards them, eyes flickering over the Swiss, the Russian, and the Frenchman. In the corner lies the limp figure of the German spy, disguised as a badly injured Brit. Before the war he had been a professional actor no less; he is certainly playing the part of a disfigured vegetable rather well….

"Where's the other one?" The fat guard counts the prisoners once more, confused. "There's one more!"

"Don't worry, he's accounted for," the Frenchman scoffs, as the security man feels the dull jab of a gun in his gut. He raises his hands, slowly realizing that the fellow in the corner is not an excellent actor, he has in fact been bound with and rendered immobile by the bandages.

"_Mein gott._" The drunken guard almost laughs as he hands over his gun. "_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_?"

* * *

The seconds seem to glide carelessly by as the liberated prisoners ascend the stairs. Bernhard and the Russian are in possession of the two weapons; the latter effortlessly shoots the first Nazi they encounter at the top of the stairs. Internally disconcerted by this proximity of death, Drake accepts the guard's gun as the Frenchman swipes this soldier's more advanced weapon. A hail of bullets and shouting punctures the air as they storm down the hallway. Nazis and spies alike are forced to duck for cover.

"_Je n'ai pas un pistolet… _Hey, where are you going?" Luke calls. Drake whirls around to see the Russian sprinting towards the backdoor.

"You'll see!" the mysterious Russian growls, before the door slams behind him. Just like that, he is gone.

"He talked!" Luke whispers. "He talked and he…he left."

"_C'est pathetique!" _Bernhard snarls.

"In fairness, you both did try to kill him. Maybe he's a bit miffed." John darts behind a filing cabinet. "Okay, I'll get Keith, you two go about the house and try to pick off the others! If I don't come back soon, just get out like the Russian."

"We're not leaving without you!" Luke asserts, firmly.

"I'm afraid you may have to," Drake mumbles, waving his gun, "I've never been a terribly good shot." Somehow, he manages to maneuver into the living room. As he crawls into the space, a black boot swoops from above, smashing his hand. Gasping in pain, Drake drops his weapon, which is swiftly snatched up by a scrawny German soldier.

"Sorry, is this yours?" the Nazi asks, mockingly. "On your knees." His gaze cold and blue, Drake obeys. Sneering, the private aims the gun at John's head and pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Drake nearly laughs, watching the soldier's increasingly desperate attempts to shoot him at point blank range. Apparently, the fat guard didn't even bother to keep his gun loaded. The pilot takes advantage of his adversary's shocked pause, using the opportunity to leap up and incapacitate the German with a series of blows to the head and neck.

"Keith?" Drake rushes over to his friend. The young man is conscious, but just barely, hanging listlessly against the ropes binding him to the chair.

"You're just in time, Drake," Keith whispers, shivering. "Another moment and I would've told everything. I couldn't distract myself…" He trails off, lips growing whiter by the second. "Please just go. Tell the others the truth." Bitter droplets slip from his brown eyes. "Tell them I'm dead." Wordlessly, Drake unties his friend, wraps his bleeding wrists in strips torn from the German's jacket, and hoists him up in a fireman's lift. "I'm dead."

"Oh dear." A gravelly voice booms out from the shadows. "I'm afraid we can't allow you to die yet, Mr. Turnbull. You're far too valuable." Drake tenses, hearing the clicking of guns. The SD-Leiter, accompanied by two underlings, steps into the glow cast by the room's dim lights. "Put him down." Drake obeys, gently placing Turnbull on the ground. "Good." The commanding Nazi aims his gun at the pilot. "Now, close your eyes, Mr. Drake. I don't like people looking at me when I shoot them."

"Stop," Keith says, quietly. "You can't kill him."

"Can't I?" SD-Leiter leers.

"You shoot him, and I'll blow my head off." Having discreetly obtained John's discarded, unloaded pistol, the spy presses the barrel against his throat. "I swear to God, I'll do it if you don't let him go. _Now_."

The bluff appears to work.

"Very well." SD-Leiter's eyes bulge with hatred. "You're more important to us alive than he is to us dead. He walks and you put down that gun, or we'll go right after him."

"Keith," John whispers, "I won't let—"

"John, you have to get out. Remember the code. Go back to England. World Travel. Ask for Hobbes. Tell him what's happened. _Please_."

SD-Leiter fires into the air. "Be gone, Drake! Before I change my mind!"

"Be seeing you, Keith," John says. It's not a farewell: it's a promise. Nazi guards seize Keith, dragging him towards the front door. The teenaged pilot storms out of the living room and tears down the hallway, on a quest to find a working gun. By the backdoor, he discovers Bernhard and Luke. Backed by the Russian. And an army of forest partisans.

"Where's Keith?" Luke demands.

"They've got him back there." Drake leads the heavily armed group back to the living room. "We've got to hurry!" The large force storms the space, finding it empty aside from a few lingering guards. They are quickly gunned down. Leaping over bullet-riddled corpses, Drake finds himself dashing out of the house.

"Over there!" Bernhard shouts. Drake stares as a large, army vehicle swerves across the front yard. "Stop that truck!"

Gunfire erupts into the night. Swarms of partisans stream up the road, shooting wildly at the truck. John stands silent and helpless as the fleeing vehicle catches fire and explodes. Sparks flare into the dark sky. The flames flicker and dance in his eyes.


End file.
